


Don’t Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder)

by radiodurans



Series: 500 Words of Harry Styles [12]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (From me? Shocking i know), Angst, Implied/Referenced Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Nonbinary Harry Styles, OTRA tour, drug/alcohol use, implied/referenced eating disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24095086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiodurans/pseuds/radiodurans
Summary: Sometimes, when Harry is acting superior for drinking nothing but beet juice, Zayn wants to shake his collar and tell him they’re just alike in all the ways that keep him up at night.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Zayn Malik
Series: 500 Words of Harry Styles [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064012
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	Don’t Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder)

**Author's Note:**

> All of the trigger-y stuff save for the weed and alcohol is only implied. Never wrote Zarry before and had a lot of fun on this one.
> 
> Thanks to sulkingroom, yellowflares, and an anonymous donor for pledging $5 and up on my Patreon.
> 
> Please do not send Mx. Harry Styles this fic. Any resemblance to persons living or dead are coincidental yadda yadda etc. I make no claims about Harry Styles' actual sexuality or gender within this story. Think of it as a roman a clef with the real names still tacked on.
> 
> Time for Zayn pain!

“You shouldn’t smoke,” says Harry. “‘S bad for your lungs.”

He pours himself another shot of tequila and downs it. Zayn strikes a match and watches it glow. He bought a special pack in Mexico with a fancy lion on the front to smile at on the bad days. The matches are almost gone, because it’s been all bad days, lately. He lights another rolled spliff over the balcony so that he doesn’t get caught for weed possession via the smell of the room. . . _again_. A few years ago, he’d be concerned with Harry snitching on him and wouldn’t smoke around him at all. However, the time for Harry giving a shit has _long_ passed. It’s a mystery as to how he even ended up staying at the same hotel tonight, let alone stumbled into Zayn’s room half-drunk at three in the morning.

He’s not opposed to the situation, but maybe that’s just because he’s high.

“Since when do you care about my lungs?” says Zayn. It has no bite; he’s too tired. Harry dangles his legs between the bars of the balcony and looks down, down.

“You should care about your own lungs. Then I won’t have to – what are the words you used in Italy. Oh!” He gives Zayn a shit-eating grin. “Nag you like a bored housewife.”

Zayn gives him a light punch on the shoulder. He takes another draw off his spliff and coughs it into the cold air.

“Could mistake you for one from the back. How long are you growing this out?”

Zayn toys with it, sticking his whole hand deep into Harry’s curls. He doesn’t usually risk overfamiliarity offstage, but Harry isn’t usually here. Harry doesn’t pull away from the touch. Instead, he pulls in a drunk, shuddering breath and closes his eyes.

“Til it feels right,” he says.

Zayn smokes as they fall into a heavy silence. Harry’s always saying shit like that, talking about ‘rightness’ and ‘wrongness’ as though he’s the only one who feels uncomfortable in his own skin. Sometimes, when Harry is acting superior for drinking nothing but beet juice, Zayn wants to shake his collar and tell him they’re just alike in all the ways that keep him up at night. But getting a rise out of Harry means giving him attention, and few things drive Harry crazier than not getting attention. Better to pretend he doesn’t exist when he’s being an arse.

Eventually, Zayn’s weed runs out. He flicks the empty butt off of the balcony. Harry pulls his legs up and leans into Zayn’s shoulder. He puts his hand on the outside of Zayn’s thigh.

“Do you miss it? Wanting to be here?” says Harry.

Breath caught in his throat, cock half-hard already, Zayn moves Harry’s hand to his inner thigh.

“I’ve never wanted to leave,” lies Zayn. “Why – have you?”

Harry slowly strokes along the inner crease of his thigh with his index finger.

“Wouldn’t trade it for the world,” he murmurs into Zayn’s neck.


End file.
